Sitting in the garden back of the monastery I'm watching the sun
set, watching the day end, wondering when my days might end,
I'm a Millennial monk, now 85 years old. And with each day past
I keep expecting the end. But I'm still here, surrounded by flowers
and shrubs, feeling the warm air against my cheeks, In lieu of my
expected demise, I have time on my hands. So what does an old
fellow do? Not much anymore, except to ponder on my life.
It has been an interesting life, if I do say so myself. Maybe not
adventurous as I would have liked; but, than again, I've never
been a swashbuckler. Though a monk, I have worked out in the
world before I took my vows--and especially afterwards. And I
believe that I did lead a fairly commendable life, at least nothing
over which to be ashamed.
So I guess I'll mull over my story as I spend these late afternoons
in the garden, Who knows maybe I'll remember events that I have
forgotten, maybe even remember wonderful times I have overlooked.
The trouble is getting started. Well, stories always have a beginning.
So I guess that's my starting point--after a short introduction.
For more than 50 years I have gone by my monastic name, Brother
Benet. I chose this name because as a monk, I am a devotee of the
Benedictine Tradition and took on a derivation of the name of its
founder, St. Benedict. I live in an ecumenical monastery, a dual
monastery actually, since it houses both men and women.
The monastery itself is part of a federation of monasteries located,
thus far, in the American West. "Millennial Monastery" is still a
young monastic organization, in that it was founded in the year
2000 c,e, the same year that I was born. So I am a part of the
so-called Millennial Generation, albeit at the very far end, born on
the cusp of the Third Millennium.
But back to happier thoughts, back to the beginning!
Of course I wasn't born with my monastic name. That would come
much later. My parents named me Geoff. Both my mother and
father were older. I guess I was an afterthought, in that my other
siblings--two brothers and a sister--were already in their teens
when I hit the scene. So by the time I was growing-up, it seemed
like I was an only child. My older siblings were already out of the
house, forging their own lives or in college.
At least my parents didn't spoil me. Indeed, sometimes I suspected
they ignored me. Hence I oft was left to entertain myself. That was
okay, because it seemed that I was born a natural dreamer. I had
a knack managing my little world, somehow making it conform to
my imaginations--that is until I was sent off to school.
My family were Episcopalians, thus so was I, That doesn't mean
that I was religious. Religion didn't seem to touch me when I was
a youngster. I guess I just endured it. I had to, because I was sent
to a church school through my formative years. Looking back, I
shouldn't complain. I actually did receive a good educational
foundation.
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